Keeping Demons at Bay
by Subtlynice
Summary: It is the early 1930s and Edward is rebelling against Carlisle’s humane way of life. Still, ever the gentleman, he stalks the streets at night, keeping human demons at bay, while he questions the moralistic views of a creature without a soul.


A/N: Happy Halloween! My fanfic "For Her", which is one of the pieces I'm most proud of, was plagiarised recently, and it inspired me to write some more angst, specifically Edward angst. I think I took out a lot of my anger in this one-shot, so… if it seems extra bloodthirsty, you know why.

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Keeping Demons at Bay

Cold, wet and dangerous. The alleyway is dark and decrepit, the perfect spot for an illegal exchange or an unprecedented attack. Dangerous. Young women shouldn't walk through such a place alone at night. Who knows what manner of creatures could follow behind.

As it happens, such a creature is following a woman through this very alley. A human demon, not quite as dangerous as most, but still alarming. A sallow-eyed, staggering man. He is a killer, a rapist, an animal. With dark eyes and scraggly features, he lopes in a drunken state towards his next victim.

But this man will never kill again.

As he stalks, a gentler, but far more fearsome creature stalks him. A saviour of some, a killer of many. Dishevelled in a distorted image of perfection; dazzling in his own fatal illusion of beauty. He keeps human demons at bay, but his own, personal demons torment him in his dreamless nights.

The human man's thoughts are vile. Those of a true monster. Sinister, sickening thoughts his soon-to-be-killer would rather not listen to. The girl they are following is scared, and with good reason. The human's plans and thoughts are crude as images of her float to his mind: helpless, bloody, weak. He derives a sick, twisted satisfaction from this picture.

The gentle monster following cringes away from these images. They are too horrific, too bloody.

Too _tempting_.

The man stalks after her, and she is near to running now, her thoughts becoming slowly more desperate as she longs to escape him. Her thoughts are pure; innocent. She wonders how her husband and newborn daughter will cope without her. She wonders if the man following her is from an enemy country, or if he is just another of the many dangerous men who live in the slums of this town.

_Edward_ follows. A stalker of the stalker. A killer of killers. The man follows the woman and the demon follows the man. As he gains on her and pulls her roughly to the side, the monster attacks.

His thoughts suddenly change: they are no longer gleeful, but frightened. He sees Edward in his mind, and the mind reader is sickened at the sight of himself. Beautiful, dirty, dishevelled and snarling. He looks ten times more of a monster than the man in his iron grasp.

The ruby red eyes are the worst part of his appearance, and it is almost enough to make him stop and shy away from this man. A new image forms in his mind- one of the man he had considered for many years as his father.

_Carlisle beams at me, despite my sickening appearance, seeing only the beauty of our kind and the beauty of the soul he claims is still within my dead chest. His arms are spread wide and he welcomes me. Esme, his wife whom I love dearly takes me into her arms, and I am safe and happy and whole._

_Home._

It is almost enough, but Edward has long since learnt that the thirst for human blood can overrule so many conflicting emotions. Remorse. Regret. Fear. Hope. Forgiveness.

He bites down, his teeth tearing violently through the skin of the rapist's flesh. He hears a choked sob from his prey, and a hundred, thousand images swarm through their minds: things he never said, never did, his passions, his regrets…

Such sentimentality from a creature he abhors almost as much as himself sickens him. He cannot listen to anymore, and he violently smashes one hand through the man's skull, pulverising the bone, shredding through the brain and silencing his mind forever.

Both satisfied and sickened, Edward drinks down deeply as his prey's prey looks on in horror.

Blood. _Ah_. The sweet, rich taste of human blood sates his hunger in a way animal blood never could. This bittersweet elixir could never be compared to such a lowly diet. It is ambrosia and nectar, the food and drink of the Gods, and Carlisle's sad substitute could never compare.

But he is not a God. Far from it.

The blood starts to cool and the monster growls in disregard. He is still thirsty. This victim died too quickly. He will need to hunt again, and soon, however much it will hurt him later.

He drops the body and turns around, relishing in the thick trail of blood he smells. The terrified young girl has gone; caught up in the moment of the kill, he had not noticed her flee. He can still hear her thoughts, and for a moment he considers silencing her. Such a rich, enticing aroma. Purity sings through her veins, and her thoughts are innocent. She is a witness to their kind. The Volturi would disapprove if he didn't…

"_No_," he growls to himself. He is not loyal to the Volturi. He does not relish in the kill and use eternity as an excuse to live as a king. He is not loyal to anyone.

The only person he would ever be loyal to is Carlisle, and he knows that Carlisle would never want him to kill an innocent young woman.

As he turns away, to face the dead man before him, he also knows that Carlisle would never want him to kill monsters like his latest prey. But what choice does he have? Go back to Carlisle and curb his diet, sustaining himself only on the tangy blood of animals, when he could have _this_? He licks his lips, savouring the sweet taste still lingering, still faintly warm.

No, he could never go back. Not now. If he'd known just how free he'd feel, he would have made this lifestyle choice a long time ago.

A pang goes through his dead chest as he thinks once more of Esme Cullen, arms wide, welcoming him home into her motherly arms. To tend for him like a child.

Would he really?

He had thought it would be better, knowing that his victim deserved the death he brought. He had thought it would make this part of his routine easier.

Wrong. It doesn't get any easier. Each body dumped beneath the ground or cast to ashes does nothing for his conscience. If anything, it pulls even more weight down on his departed soul.

He dumps his latest corpse six feet underground, in a small copse in the nearby woods. If his prey's victim _does_ report what she saw, there will be no proof. He makes sure of that. She'll just be another little girl, terrified by the talk of an oncoming war, desperate for attention, making up tales to impress the neighbours.

He's good at what he does, it's the one thing he's surest of, and the truth of this sickens him.

He hides from the sun when it rises. He stalks through the shadows when it sets.

He grows hungry. He attempts to put off the hunt, but he has become addicted to the taste. He needs to feed, but he doesn't want to kill again this week. His throat sears in defiance and it quickly becomes unbearable.

"_Please, please, please_," he chokes. But his thirst continues to torment him. He will not make it through the night without another kill.

He believes that what he needs is blood. He is wrong.

What he really needs is Bella, but he doesn't know it, because she hasn't been born yet.

Half-formed, half-complete, confused and self-depreciating, without Bella he believes he is whole. He believes his thirst will quench with blood, his knowledge can be gained from books, and his soul can never be spared.

He is wrong, but for the meantime, it eases his pain to believe in such a black-and-white world.

The thirst grows stronger still, and whimpering from the pain, he makes his way out into the oncoming night. It is quiet, dark and tranquil. The sun has just set, and stars begin to dot the night time sky. It would be beautiful if his thirst was not blinding him from the sight.

He propels himself forward, to the woods where so many of his victims have been buried. Here, he decides he shall wait and listen for the thoughts of his next victim.

There, he stays. He searches the minds of the local nightlife, but finds it dull. There are no human demons to be fought tonight. Just the demons tormenting his forgotten soul.

He wants to fight what he is. Wants to be a better person. But how can he, when the thirst is so strong he can't even think straight?

Twilight fades and night sets in heavily. Now, the only sounds are those of the woodland creatures and his own laboured breathing. He knows he should walk away, stalk his usual haunts- the alleyways, bars, parks… but he stays. He isn't quite sure why. What was here in this dark forest that held more power over his mind than the ravaging thirst burning away at his insides?

From the darkness, he hears a yelp, followed soon after by hisses and scratches. As the noises of a fight reach his ears, he realises that the forest doesn't hold more power over his thirst. It _is_ his thirst that keeps him here.

With this knowledge, he finally moves, dragging himself forward, letting the thick scent of blood lead the way.

When he reaches his victim, he doesn't stop to look. He doesn't stop to listen. He is too thirsty to care. Instead, he raises the injured animal's wound to his mouth and begins to drink.

Blood trickles down his throat. It does not quench the thirst, but his conscience is quickly soothed as he recognises the bitter taste. It is different to that of which he has become used to. Not as enticing, not as rich…

But _so_ much better.

So… cleansing. After years of living on human blood, this forgotten taste doesn't seem as unappealing as it used to. Whereas before, this 'vegetarian' way of life felt like a cage, ensnaring him in guilt and trapping his true instincts, now, it feels better. He isn't caged in, he's set free.

Free to grieve. Free to love. Free to be a better person.

Cleansed. Purified. A baptism of sorts, he thinks sardonically, as he sees the wash of blood he is drenched in. Blood is blood, but this blood is better. If he could see his eyes now, he knows they would be slightly less red. Slightly more humane.

Yes, human blood tasted dark and rich, like the finest wine of the gods. But he isn't a god, and in a sudden epiphany, Edward realises that he's been drinking the wrong sustenance. If he is truly immortal, he need not appease whatever higher being there may be. But he isn't. He can be killed; ripped to pieces and burnt. He doesn't need the food of the gods. It is the blood of animals that he needs.

Need. He _needs_ this. Needs victims of a moralistic dietary choice. Needs redemption from the people he loves. Needs minds with more sweetness to read than any of those he has heard for the last, dark period of his life. He needs his family.

Slowly, he rises. Dawn is approaching, and he must find shelter. But when the sun sets, he will not go about his old routine. For it is a moonless night and the sky is dark, but there are stars; points of light and reason on the horizon. His thirst no longer blinds his eyes to beauty.

No, he will make his way back to the last town they had stayed in, stop at all the houses they own, travel the country to find Carlisle and Esme and to beg for forgiveness, so that he can attempt to redeem his sins.

He leaves the deer on the dewy ground and walks away, with a new peace of mind.

There is still something missing. He isn't complete, not yet, and he won't be for another seventy years.

What he really needs Bella, but for now, he will find solace in the arms of his family.

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A/N: Like? Then review. Reviews would make angsty Edward happy.

**This story and a few of my others - Thy Beauty, For Her and The Angel Illusion - have been nominated in the "You're Never Too Young To Write" contest hosted by Cyartia and invisiblevampire. It's such a unique contest idea, and I'd love some votes! Voting beings on 1st May. In the meantime, see their profiles for details on how to nominate other teen writers. K-rated fics deserve love too!**


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